I felt something ugly settle in my gut.
Because I remembered Richard’s face when he looked at her.
Impressive.
Disciplined.
Quality.
And now I was watching Isa’s mother hear those things like approval from my father was another step up a ladder.
By the time dessert came, I was done.
Done with Trent’s market-manipulator commentary.
Done with Mrs. Calloway touching my sleeve every time she laughed.
Done with the way Isa kept smoothing the room instead of breaking it.
Done with being looked at like I was both threat and jackpot.
But Isa’s hand stayed on my leg under the table.
Cold.
Tense.
Holding on.
So I stayed.
For her.
I could do that.
I could survive a dinner.
I could survive Christmas.
I could survive anything if, at the end of it, she looked at me and I knew she saw Drew.
Not Montgomery.
Not Richard’s son.
Not a bigger prize.
Me.
The next morning, I slept late.
That never happened.
I blamed the travel, the wine, the late-night tension humming in my blood, the fact that Isa and I had spent half the night in her childhood bed not having sex with the kind of discipline that should have gotten me a medal and immediate medical attention.
She had fallen asleep with her back against my chest, one of my arms wrapped around her waist, her fingers tangled with mine.
At some point, I must have actually slept.
